Wounds and Blessings

It had been several years since I'd visited New York City. The
sun collapsed into an orange ball behind the skyscrapers of lower
Manhattan as my flight swooped by them, over the Statue of
Liberty, and on past the Empire State Building to LaGuardia.

I can't view that skyline without experiencing a flood of
memories from my time in East Harlem as a college student.
Nostalgia and a little sadness overcame meand regret that
the passage of years has dulled some of my enthusiasm. I actually
believed then that I could change the world.

Twenty-two years later, I was feeling weary. There's always a
danger to agreeing in July to lead a retreat in February on hope.
But I had assented to spend a weekend with Pax Christi Metro New
York leading a retreat on "Hope for the Long Haul." As
the plane touched down, I whispered to myself, "I hope these
folks are prepared to be vulnerable this weekend." Not much
was going to happen if it all depended on me.

My text that Friday evening was Genesis 32:22-31, the story of
Jacob wrestling all night with the angel. I reflected that we
seem to be in a wrestling time these days, a time requiring
persistence and patience. Most of the people in the room had been
to Central America in the '80s during the contra war; they had
resisted nuclear weapons in the '70s during the Cold War; many
had been active in the '60s in the civil rights struggle. Those
times seemed like eras of high energy for resistance.

Often these days it seems that what is most required of us is
a lot of waiting and serving and being presentto refugees
and homeless people, to prisoners and battered women, to troubled
children and dying folk. The people gathered in that room nodded
in assent when I reflected that it's easy to feel isolated in our
wrestling.

In the Jacob story, the angel put his hip socket out of joint,
then asked Jacob to let him go. But Jacob refused to release him
until the angel blessed him. A truth leapt out at me as I read
the story: That which wounds us blesses us, and that which
blesses us wounds us.

I offered two questions for reflection and invited the
retreatants to share with the rest of the group their thoughts:
With what are you wrestling? Where do you feel invited to know
wounding and blessing? I hoped someone would share.

THE FIRST PERSON to speak said, "I shouldn't be
here." He explained that just months before he was in a coma
he wasn't expected to come out of. He shared about his ongoing
struggle with AIDS and cancer, and of his search to understand
why God had spared him for more living.

Then a sister of Charity spoke emotionally of her week working
at St. Vincent's Hospital. She was caring for a couple who were
among the eight people who had been shot in the incident at the
top of the Empire State Building just days before. She was deeply
touched by the spirit of forgiveness she observed in her
patients, who prayed for the gunman and his family.

Others added their stories. A chaplain at Riker's Island was
courageously confronting gangs within the prison. A school
teacher daily faced children wielding weapons. A nurse was caring
for young children who had been shot by their father on New
Year's Eve; the youngest, a 5-year-old, hoped that he wouldn't go
to jail because, "After he did it, he said he was
sorry."

A married couple shared a profound anguish that had just
entered their lives. The man, who suffered from a neurological
disease, had just lost his capacity to speak. They were learning
in new ways how to communicate and care for one another.

One woman, who works with troubled youth, offered a comment
that brought smiles and assent from around the room: "I
don't know about hope for the long haul; I'm just looking for
some hope for the short haul."

The weekend was a poignant reminder to me of the desperation
of our situation in this country. Our presence and our service
are much needed. So is our hope.

A sister who works at a shelter for survivors of domestic
violence spoke of her love and concern for the children who pass
through her life. Earlier in the week a young girl had hovered
near her with a friend, until the girl worked up her courage to
ask a question.

"Are you what they call white?" she asked bluntly.

"Yes, I guess I am," the sister answered.

Turning to her friend, the girl said, "See, that ain't so
bad."

Glimpses of hope are everywhere. Indeed, those people who
wound uswhose suffering breaks our heartsare also a
source of great blessing. And shared vulnerability will keep us
all going for the long haul.

Joyce Hollyday, the author of Clothed With the Sun:
Biblical Women, Social Justice, and Us, was aSojourners
contributing editor and was in the master's of divinity
program at Candler School of Theology at Emory University in
Atlanta when this article appeared.

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